


i went around and got tired of it

by caitss



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emtionally Repressed, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitss/pseuds/caitss
Summary: Saihara’s always been the one in control, they just have no clue.TW - eating disorders, suicide, self-harm, and more. please don’t read if you are sensitive to any of this!!





	i went around and got tired of it

**Author's Note:**

> hi if cosmicpoet won’t kill Saihara I will  
> names cait  
> tips fedora  
> and you’ll remember me  
> one of my last danganronpa fics and whoo it’s depressing  
> here’s a thing I did in one sitting  
> edit; lol i lied kate dragged me back

Saihara had friends.

Which, by itself, was a puzzle. People hanging around him, soaking in his presence and spewing jokes, it was too uncomfortable. He flinched, he was scared, but how did people not notice? How did they continue to get in his face, to press on, to shout meaningless nothings that fade away when he screams into his pillow? Saihara’s hyperaware of the glow in their eyes, the curl of their lips, the constant noise. He can sense it even before the person approaches him - he wraps himself in a blanket of pitch black paranoia and scurries off. 

Momota was no different. He got in Saihara’s face, slapped his back, shouted over and over. Saihara genuinely appreciates when people try and help him, try to extend their hands to pull him out of his sinking self hatred. But it’s such a common trope, that it feels like meaningless nonsense being drilled into his head until he forces a nod. Momota doesn’t know he’s simply filling his head with white noise, that he’s adding onto the stress. Living up to the expectations of people who talk big is something Saihara was never good at. Their smiles, so big and wide, their eyes full of shining hope. It was another weight on his shoulders. 

But he tried - if he didn’t try, why would he be hovering over a toilet, shoving his fingers down his throat and cleansing the insides of his body? Why would he drag a razor across his pale skin until it was raw and sprayed with blood, all over his arms. If he didn’t try to be the best, why would he eat so little and scold himself about anything that entered his body? He really did strive. Momota and the others just didn’t know. 

Momota has a girlfriend. When Saihara met him, a twin tailed girl was trailing him, a regular height and just more salt to his open wounds. He spoke with her, spoke with Momota, and kept his screams inside, where they twisted his heart. She was cold, but very soft and warm on the inside. Saihara almost laughs at how common that was too - she was just Momota’s tsundere in a cheesy anime. It shocks him how bitter he sounds - a while back, he would have been happy to meet them both, but his self esteem depletes just seeing both of them. A gaping hole replaces his heart, a black piece of misery that only sucks people in and traps them forever. 

Sounds like him. Saihara hangs out with them, starts spitting out their first names, winces when they do the same for him. Go away, go away. It’s really all he wants to say whenever Momota asks him if he needs to vent. But he’s fragile, and pure, and Saihara isn’t ready to knock him over the head with something called the truth. They visit an ice cream parlor together - Saihara chokes down vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate poison, and vomits it out after. He lets himself be fake for a while and wears a painted clown mask, letting them manipulate him so they could entrance themselves into believing they’re fixing him. 

At his house, his mouth feels dry and his throat cracks, the weight of their words on his shoulders. Momota and Harukawa text him, blowing up his phone with a annoying ringtone. Everything was so damn loud about Momota and his girlfriend. Saihara hates it. He’s empty. It’s cute how they try to bounce back and pull him out of his rotting memories, how they try to take back their own words when they go too far. 

Who died his heart into a fading black?  
He really doesn’t know.  
Who was it again? 

Saihara sits at home, alone, alone. His phone goes off. He looks over with apathy in his eyes, and sees Momota’s contact. Yes, you’re fine Saihara, you aren’t thinking of killing yourself and becoming another statistic. 

He picks up the phone, and answers the call. 

“H-Hey, Kaito-kun.”  
“What’s up, Shuichi? How are you doing?!”

Saihara goes along with his cheery words and his boisterous laughter. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. His trust in Momota was so little anyway - could he really lose any of it? When they hang up, Saihara stares up at his ceiling, trying to find art in the paint. His world crumbles around him, Momota’s words, Harukawa’s silent looks that could kill a man, and every scar on his wrist goes away. Glaring up at the ceiling, at someone who isn’t even there, is relieving. 

Oh, he’s so bitter with the world around him. 

He could pick up that razor and slit his wrists over and over until he could see muscle. Saihara could drown himself in his pool, let the water fill his lungs and slowly destroy him. He could do a lot, right now, but the thing he does is grab a kitchen knife, and line it up with his heart. Would this work? It was so sharp, and could slice through anything, through the roughest and toughest meat. Saihara knew it had to work, and if it didn’t, he would shove the blade into his beating heart until his blood exploded all over him, until he had hacked away all the skin and his dead heart was visible. Sounds so gory and so surreal, too dramatic - it heavily contrasted who people thought he was. 

With strength that Momota and Harukawa’s words could never give him, Saihara shoves the sharp blade into his skin. It burns, crimson seeping through his shirt. He shoves and twists, his insides scorching and screeching with agony, twisting with pain that he was engulfed by. When the blade finally impales his heart, a pain that he’s never felt fills him. Deeper, deeper, plunging directly in. Blood never stops flowing, covering the shiny silver and highlighting his pale knuckles. Oh, it hurts so bad, but it feels so good. Saihara’s played a God so many times, slitting his wrists and letting the world decay. He’s weighed all of his choices, controlled what he’s done; hell, he even took control of his stomach and his body, his fingers became the angels that commanded.

And when ebony dances around his vision, when there is no tears and only the metallic smell of blood wafting in the air, Saihara lets the world know it never had any power over him whatsoever.

**Author's Note:**

> title is loosely inspired by karakuri pierrot !


End file.
